


Survival

by beenieboo



Series: In the end, it doesn't matter [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-26
Updated: 2017-10-26
Packaged: 2019-01-23 18:46:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12513952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beenieboo/pseuds/beenieboo
Summary: The Winter Soldier’s actions leave a lasting mark on Darcy Lewis.





	Survival

**Author's Note:**

> I actually wrote this immediately after 'In the end, it doesn't matter', but it never felt like the right time to post the story. I think now on reflection I needed time to look back on that story, and put into perspective the journey I imagine Darcy had to travel. I hope you like it.

Days immobile, but not through choice, she is still unable to walk. Still unable to feel anything below her waist. They tell her she’ll walk again, the damage isn’t permanent. Championing her recovery. They tell her she saved Jane, that her injuries aren't permanent, she’s fine, you saved her life. 

None of that matters. she is hollow, yet too full at the same time. Her insides ripped out and shoved back in without due thought about where they should go. At least, that’s how it feels to her.

Family wants to visit, she won’t see them. Friends want to visit, she won’t acknowledge them. She’s grieving they whisper in hushed tones. she demands the blinds are shut, she doesn’t want to see. Doesn’t want to see who might be out there. Doesn’t want to see what’s out there. Everything is just too much. Woeful howls echo around the austere recovery room. She cries herself to sleep. 

Next time she wakes, or to be precise is woken, a nurse is reaching out for a pulse reading. She startles, protectively cradling the arm against her chest. Shrinking away from the visitor, she guardedly listens to the nurse calmly explain everything she is doing, precisely as she is doing it. Eventually the ordeal ends, and the visitor gestures to a plastic chair nearest the bed, a silent request to sit down. Darcy says nothing, permission in itself for the nurse to do whatever she wants. She moves under the covers, acutely aware of the rapid tattoo threatening to burst forth from her chest. Will she always feel this scared? 

The nurse perches at the end of the seat, close but not too close. She hesitates before describing how over the past few weeks, from her station outside Darcy’s room, she's witnessed people try bluster their way into this room, that she watched security silently take root at exits all over the hospital. And finally that she's worried Darcy’s mind is slipping away. 

….I shot a man,  
I killed a man,  
And then I bled away...

….I shot a man,  
I killed a man,  
And now I’m slipping away...

Silent tears flow harder now, she’s on the edge and she may never come back. 

Next time Darcy wakes, she has no idea how long she’s been out but suspects it’s a while. Her limbs are heavy, head foggy with too much sleep. The heel of her palm massages gritty eyes, one blink, then two, then three, she doesn’t have her contacts in, glasses will have to do.

‘Darcy....’ 

Shuffling upright from under the covers, she contemplates the familiar face. The nurse casually approaches the seat she occupied before. A file already open to a page of interest, it rocks and flexes as she settles herself. A reassuring smile is reserved just for Darcy. Neither women are in a rush to speak, so the world of the hospital filters into the room. A squeaky gurney carefully wheeling past, the chime of an elevator indicating it’s the right floor for someone. 

Darcy’s hand strays to her nose. The floral notes of her visitor’s perfume tickles, followed by the explosive rush of air painfully disturbing her injuries. Being shot didn’t kill her, maybe a sneeze will. Gingerly breathing, any other time the scent would be appealing. A head turner her mother would say. 

‘Who are you?’ Darcy croaks. The sooner they interact, maybe the sooner she’ll be left alone. 

‘Dr Watts, Antonia Watts. I am trained to help people, people like yourself-’ 

‘A shrink…?’ cutting her off. ‘So not a nurse.’ 

‘You’ve been through a lot these past few weeks…’

‘Haven't you heard? I killed a man. I'm a murderer!’ Darcy spits out angrily.

‘I’m here to help…’

‘Nobody can help me…’ 

‘I think I can…’

Five months pass, Darcy's settles into her new home. New Jersey is a world away from the hustle and bustle of New York. It’s what she needs. From the front room window, golden brown fall leaves carpet the gated yard. A garbage truck drives by chased by the lazy yap of a small dog. 

How will you get to your physio sessions? Who's going to make sure you're eating alright? What if you need help getting out and about?

She returns her gaze to Jane and laments in a comical bond villain voice aha! the tables have turned Jane! Once upon a time Darcy would have been fussing, smothering... 

‘I'll be fine’

Her go to statement. It's not a lie. She will be fine, eventually. Right now, she's faking it until she makes it. Whatever it takes to make it through each and every day. One step at a time, figuratively and literally. Physio is kicking her ass. 

‘Jane don't you have a God to go home to? A little sumthin sumthin to keep you warm on a day like this?’ 

There she is, the old Darcy. Regular Darcy Lewis, Political Science Major finally. Self enforced solitude, and copious access to online classes, those missing credits complete. They talk about Jane’s upcoming research trip to Finland. It appears Darcy is not the only person looking to escape New York. They talk about stuff, fluffy, light, pointless stuff. Neither mentions The Incident. Some wounds are still too raw.

With one leg tucked up under the other, from her vantage point on the plush oversized couch, Jane hands her coffee. She doesn’t have the heart to reveal coffee is no longer her thing, it gets her too amped up, makes the dreams too vivid, the screams too loud, the pain too real. Still, the scent is intoxicating. Bad coffee, bad bad coffee. 

‘Where you at Darce?’ Jane’s now perched right in front of her. She looks tired, Darcy thinks. Maybe all those late night chasing Science! have finally caught up with her. Maybe they both share the same nightmare, the one that forces her awake, gasping for breath, begging, pleading... 

With a smile that never quite reaches her eyes, she reassures Jane yet again everything is fine. We’re both survivors! Hustling to make it through the day! The bloom of a migraine tingles behind her eyes. So she begs off the rest of the visit. Sometimes, people can be a bit too much. People are reminders. She doesn't blame Jane for The Incident. But she would be lying to herself if there is not a teeny tiny sliver of something, resentment with a lowercase ‘r’. Perfectly normal according to Dr Watts. A one armed bro hug, promises of visits soon, she waves Jane off until her sedan is a speck in the distance. She misses her friend. She misses everything.

Nine months pass, lightening peels across the afternoon sky, followed by the low rumble of thunder somewhere far off. The quiet pitter patter of rain increases in volume as a torrent falls from the sky. Anyone out there is utterly soaked in an instance, umbrella or not. 

Darcy is flat out on her back on Dr Watts’ incredibly comfortable yet creaky therapy couch. Knees upright, one arm folded across her face, the other fallen to the floor. Quelle dramatic. Swamped by her favourite oversized orange sweater dress, the arms extend way beyond her hands. Purple leggings, finished off by her most scuffed Doc Marten boots. The steel toe cap catches the light.

The press are interested in her again, TMZ raid her trash can, National Enquirer resurrect their most favourite headline ‘Lewis and Soldier love spat turns violent’, spinning events of that day into something salacious and blatantly untrue. 

Thank God for her sense of humour, now. 

‘He's been exonerated. How does that make you feel?’

Well, that's the million dollar question. The ‘So you shot a man, kind of lost your mind, and now he’s walking around free’ leaflet has not been of much use to date. 

‘Like I don't matter…’ bitterness colours the response.

Today is a better day, she actually left her house. She’s here, ready to talk about her feelings. Though her mind can be a fickle bitch, sometimes.

‘I wish he were dead’.

She bolts upright, draws her legs to her chest. Chin balances on her knees, green eyes focus on the day’s paper. Do not cry. No more tears on that man! 

‘Can I blame him?’ she questions out loud. ‘His mind wasn’t his own. So can he responsible for his actions?’ 

‘What do you think, Darcy?’ 

‘I hate him...’, slamming a fist into the couch. The grainy black and white image of the Winter Soldier’s face peers out from the paper. Unfurling her slender fingers, the sting radiates across Darcy’s knuckles. 

Pointing towards the page, ‘...that face looked straight through me, like I was nothing and put me down, like was nothing’. Her voice breaks, this is not how the session was meant to go today. 

‘You are not nothing. You are a survivor’, Dr Watts reassures. The newspaper disappears from Darcy’s view. All she hears is the soft clunk as it lands in the bin.

‘I want to be more!’ she screams in frustration. ‘I don’t just want to be a survivor. I want to be me again. It’s been so long’. 

Half jokingly she mutters ‘maybe I should just run…’ 

It would be easy, pack up, move away. Go somewhere different, where she’s unknown.

‘So, run…’ Dr Watts sympathetically agrees. 

Thirteen months pass, it’s a beautifully warm August day. She finally back home. Months spent exploring different destinations. Her passport marked with multiple visas from foreign lands. She did run, used the opportunity to ‘take control of the narrative’, binge watching Scandal, Olivia Pope, now that’s the kind of woman I want to be. 

Having flown to New Mexico to visit Jane, it’s apt they should rekindle their friendship in the place where they first met. Sun up high, clouds glide lazily across the blue sky. Darcy rests against a tree, legs flop out in front of her, the pleasant burn of a well earned work out. She is pleased, exceeded her personal best for a 7 mile run. In the distance children dart in and out of the trees, water sprays everywhere as they yelp in delight. Idly she rubs the now fading the scar on her stomach. In her crop top, the mark is on display, today she doesn’t even care. From the corner of her eyes, Jane comes into view, dropping to her back cursing. 

‘That’s not very lady like Jane…’ she smirks, seems Jane has picked up some colourful language from her time in Finland. ‘But well done you, walging the last mile’. Magnanimously rolling over the half filled water bottle to Jane.

‘Walging?’ she questions, panting between drawn out slugs of water.

‘You know, walk jogging…’ 

Jumping up to her feet, Darcy assumes the best position to stretch out her quads. 

She runs now, literally. Not what she had expected Dr Watts to advise. Neither the invite for their next session to take place in the local park. Come, run with me. Recalling the first attempt at any sort of distance, the bitter aftertaste of bile from heaving her up guts after three miles. The unwelcome pull of her scar, where muscles flexed and contracted. Hating every moment of it. But she continues, three times a week, pushing that little harder, running that little further. The feel of freedom, nothing but her mind and music to keep her motivated. Maybe she can outrun her demons. 

‘What now?’ Kicking Darcy’s sneakers, Jane interrupts the memory.

‘We keep on running’, grinning at Jane’s outlandishly loud groan. ‘Come on Jane, move your ass, only three more miles to go’.

‘Why?’ she whines, ‘We’re not being chased…’, letting Darcy pull her up to her feet.

Huffing out a laugh, Darcy looks around the park, ‘Nope, I don’t suppose we are’. Never again she hopes. 

Seventeen months pass, it’s snowing. Just the time of year for forced reflection. Back at work in New York. 

‘No, not at the tower. I’m not a sadist’, reassuring her mother during their weekly Skype chat. ‘I think it’s time.’ Neither a statement nor question. 

 

Fourth interview lucky, she’s attempting to make use of the Political Science degree burning a hole in her back pocket. The interviewer doesn’t give her a second glance. Absolutely no recognition of the name ‘Darcy Lewis’. To be fair, a lot of time has passed, other more interesting things have happened since then. Trump being president...

It’s a small non-profit organisation, operating miles away from Stark Tower. The balding middle age man, call me Brian, infinitely more nervous than she is. Newly promoted to the role of manager, he needs to set up his own team of administrators to oversee the things. Forty-five minutes later, somehow the interview has been derailed by a shared love of Italy. She learns that things is not code for anything illegal. When can you start? The only difficult question Brian asks her. She loves the place already.

‘I feel at home there...you know…’ supping coffee, excitedly describing just how normal she finally feels to Dr Watts. Their sessions have dropped to one a month. She’s not quite ready to let go of that crutch.

‘The best thing, none of them knew who I was when I started. Most still don’t…’ describing the moment Brian overhead her phone conversation to her mother. How she finally explained that she was that Darcy Lewis. 

‘It’s was me, but isn’t. Does that make sense…’ furrowed brow, doubting the sanity of her explanation. Penny dropping ‘kind of like him, and The Winter Soldier. The same person, but not...Does that mean he’s changed?’

‘Why does it matter Darcy?

‘Because I’ve changed. I matter’ 

Two years pass, it’s the first time she’s stepped foot in the building since The Incident. Forever italicised in her mind, it no longer holds the same power it once did. Closure, she needs it. Every aspect of her life is in order, except this little part. Yep, little, she’ll no longer let it define her, not anymore. People scurry by, late for work, she leans heavily on her walking stick it’s my pimp cane, Jane! Rolled her ankle out running a few days before. She’ll be limping for a few weeks at least.

How does one reach out to the guy who almost killed you? It had taken some doing, reaching out like that. Marching, yes, marching right into the Tower one weekend a few months ago. Demand made, ball was in his court. 

‘Miss Lewis, you asked me to inform you when Mr Barnes was on his way. He will be with you shortly’. 

A friendly aide ushers her into the inner sanctum. She politely but firmly tells him to leave her be. She needs to do this alone. Passing through the halls, she sees familiar faces, exchanges hugs, swaps condolences, maybe sheds a few tears. They call her crazy, they don’t understand why she’s there, she doesn’t really care. Furtive glances towards the hallway, it’s nearly time. She’s still not told Jane about today. She needs to do this herself. Selfish, maybe, but she’s the one who shot the guy. She can never forget the place she nearly died to save a friend. Tentative steps echo around her, she’s arrives 20 minutes before the allotted time. Needs time to gather her thoughts, settle her nerves, practice what she wants to say. Can’t even tell where gunfire was, casting her eyes around the spartan corridor, she rests her walking stick against the wall, and settles down on her knees at the spot. Hand ghosts over the floor where they found her, semi conscious, she doesn’t remember that bit. Apparently still holding the gun, ready to shot in case he wasn’t really dead. Just her and The Winter Soldier lying there, Jane having managed to stumble for help. 

Footsteps, it’s not him, it’s not him, it’s not him...

‘I know you’re there’, holding up her palm she beckons him closer. Does she sound in control, she doesn’t feel it. Anxiety builds like a bubble fit to burst. The prickle of adrenaline just there, just in case...Of all the things she has done, this she now thinks might just be the stupidest.

‘I’m James Buchanan Barnes. I am so sorry that I tried to kill you…’ 

Sensing his nervousness, slowly she rises to her feet, and pivots apprehensively to face him. Her green eyes roam over his face, schooling her features to betray no hint of any emotion. Absolutely still, he’s left a good distance between them, even stands off centre so she still sees the light at the end of the tunnel. Still she says nothing, returning her gaze back to him, continuing her exploration, before settling on his metal hand. Owlishly she blinks, quietly counts to three. She closes her eyes, her fists balled up; before flexing her fingers outwards, hitting her palms against her thighs. Expelling a puff of air, she methodically opens her eyes, fixes her gaze intently at him.

‘I’m Darcy Lewis, and I’m sorry that you tried to kill me. I’m also sorry, that I shot you in the head’.

Clearing her throat, more confidently she continues ‘...What’s done, is done. I’ve worked through my issues.’ A little quieter, ‘...I just want to say, I know you were not you. Not the person who I see here now, and I forgive you. I accept your apology, because I can’t let this matter anymore’.

Reaching out for her walking stick, she limps past him, never giving him a second glance. 

She's going to be alright.


End file.
